The fate of love is that it always seems too little or too much.

Whatever the scientists may say, if we take the supernatural out of life, we leave only the unnatural.

This world is run with far too tight a rein for luck to interfere. Fortune sells her wares; she never gives them. In some form or other, we pay for her favors; or we go empty away.

Events that are predestined require but little management. They manage themselves. They slip into place while we sleep, and suddenly we are aware that the thing we fear to attempt, is already accomplished.

Old age is the verdict of life.